


Sun and Moon

by ddagent



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Professors, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Banter, F/M, Flirting, Kissing, Museums, No Incest, Pining, Resolved Sexual Tension, Romance, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Which is a tag I never thought would find valuable but here we go
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 23:01:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20072050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ddagent/pseuds/ddagent
Summary: On his seventh nameday, Jaime Lannister receives his soul mark: a crest with yellow suns and crescent moons. He thinks nothing of it until forty years later, when he meets museum curator Brienne Tarth.





	Sun and Moon

**Author's Note:**

> I continue my holiday writing marathon with what I think is possibly my very first soulmate AU? I've written so much fic in the last fourteen years, it's hard to keep track. *Anyway*, I had lots of fun with this, and I hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> NOTE: there is no incest in this, although there are vague illusions of Jaime's sister believing they belong together. Also, I made Tywin and Joanna second cousins because this is a modern AU and I want to make it less creepy.

On the morning of his seventh nameday, Jaime Lannister was startled awake by the intense _burning_ of his left wrist. He glanced at the digital clock beside his bed (07:07) and then at his arm. _So Cersei was right. _Ever since their Septa had told them of soulmates, a gift from the Seven, his beloved sister had been _obsessed _with their upcoming nameday. She firmly believed they would each wake that morning with their own house colours – the familiar gold lion abed a red banner – on their wrist. _Like mother and father, _she'd said; although they were second cousins, rather than brother and sister.

Jaime looked at his wrist. _No lion. _

His thumb stroked the new pigment of his skin. The soul mark was slightly larger than a coin; just big enough to pick out the detail. The banner was quartered: yellow suns on red a shade lighter than his own house; white crescent moons on blue the colour of Shipbreaker Bay. In the centre was a golden sun. Jaime had never seen that particular house sigil before. Although he had been sure his sister was right about them receiving their own house banners, Jaime had also considered a dragon, a direwolf, maybe even a monster from the sea. This was…_unexpected. _

When Cersei didn't come to his room like planned, Jaime went to hers. He rapped on her door twice with his right hand; his left wrist still aching. She opened the door just a crack, eyes widening at the sight of his right arm. She sighed with relief. "You didn't get one either."

But then her eyes, a mirror to his own, caught a glimpse of his left. She slammed the door in Jaime's face; her vicious cursing audible even on this side. It wasn't _his_ fault. It was the Seven who had decided his soulmate; his other half. _I'm still your brother, _Jaime wanted to say. _We still share so much. _Just not a soul.

\--

At fifteen, Jaime had disregarded the idea of soulmates. The whole concept was derived from faith in the Seven, and Jaime wasn't sure he had faith in _anything_ anymore. He had enjoyed the stories of old: knights and dragons; quests and fair maidens. But the real world was lawyers, hostile takeovers, and boring banquets. He had little faith in his family, either: after his mother's death, his father had turned into a twisted shadow of his former self. After their seventh nameday, his sister had treated him only a shade kinder than their youngest brother.

Easier not to have faith in anything.

Still, for the first time since waking up with that mysterious banner on his wrist, Jaime felt the damn mark _itch. _He scratched it as the driver dropped him off in front of his father's Lannisport office; nails digging into flesh as he took the elevator up. Before, when Cersei had been obsessed with the idea of soulmates, she'd spoken on and _on_ about how they itched just before you met your _one true love_. Jaime hoped he didn't find his here. Everyone who worked for his father was just as bad as he was.

Stepping onto the top floor, Jaime continued to worry at the mark on his wrist. His father was in a meeting; no doubt with someone 'more important' than his eldest son. _Scratch, scratch, scratch. _He usually covered up his mark, at his father's insistence. On the morning of his seventh nameday, as well as being shunned by his own twin sister, his father had taken one look at his mark and _glared_; as if it was somehow _his _fault his soulmate wasn't a Dornish princess or a Targaryen billionaire.

"_Fuck_," Jaime cursed, nails biting into the skin.

"You said a bad word."

Jaime glanced up from the tender skin of his wrist. He hadn't noticed the girl sitting across from him; although how he could have missed her he had no idea. She was gangly, with a young face; blue eyes and a mop of blonde hair. The girl could be as young as seven, although she looked larger than most kids her age. She wore a blue flannel shirt, a white cast over her right wrist (no signatures), and was poking a pencil inside to satisfy some impossible itch. _Been there. _He'd lost a miniature replica sword when he'd broken his leg. As well as scratching, the kid was also scowling at him, and his bad language.

So Jaime did the mature thing, and stuck his tongue out at her.

Thankfully, her father left Tywin's office before Jaime could get into a battle of wills with a small child. He gave the kid no more than a second glance before he strode inside the lion's den.

\--

Usually a golden lion, now in his fortieth year, Jaime's dark blonde hair was plastered to his head as he waited outside the Shipbreaker Museum of Ancient History. It didn't have the prestige of King's Landing, or the financial backing of some of the northern museums, but it was well-respected for its collection of ancient antiquities and its _extensive _library. That library was the reason why Jaime was even in this sodden kingdom: he was spending his long break researching a new article on the Long Night, and his research had taken him here. _If _the curator ever turned up, of course. 

A car pulled into the adjacent lot; the space designated for _Doctor Tarth. _Jaime stood, hands fumbling with his umbrella, as he waited for this Doctor Tarth to make their appearance. He hadn't expected a giant to unfold herself from behind the wheel. A newspaper was used in lieu of an umbrella, and long legs dodged puddles as she made her way to join him.

"Doctor Lannister?" she shouted over a crash of thunder.

He nodded. "Do you mind if we make small talk inside? It's a little damp."

Two keys, and a seven digit number pressed into a keypad, unlocked the back entrance of the Shipbreaker Museum. The exhibits were closed for the day; one of the main roads into Storm's End had been shut off, and there was a worry over staff making it in safely. At least, that was what Doctor Tarth had told him when he'd emailed her that morning to confirm their appointment. _We can re-arrange, _had been the general impression, but Jaime hadn't travelled all the way to the watery marsh that was the Stormlands only to hole up in his hotel room and listen to the thunder.

"Let's get this over with," Doctor Tarth said, as she led him through the back corridors towards her office.

"Are you this polite to all visiting academics?"

She threw a thin smile over her shoulder. "Only to the ones who drag me out in the middle of a monsoon."

The museum wasn't huge, so it didn't take long to reach Doctor Tarth's office. It was smaller than his walk-in wardrobe back in his flat in King's Landing. There were books scattered over every surface; posters from old exhibitions tacked to the wall. Jaime admired a replica _Oathkeeper _blade that was displayed on one of the bookshelves. He was about to run his finger along the steel when a ratty towel was thrown at his head. He dabbed at his face.

"Thank you. Any chance of a coffee? I was waiting for quite some time."

"Forgive me, Doctor Lannister, I had to drive my car through several feet of water to make it to the museum because _you_ think your article is more important than my safety in a severe storm." Doctor Tarth squeezed the water out of her hair with her own towel, but did go and fill the tiny electric kettle she kept in her office. "This _really_ could have waited."

"And yet, you're here."

Doctor Tarth scowled, but said nothing further.

Whilst the kettle boiled, Jaime turned his attention to the museum's curator. She was tall; probably an inch on Jaime, if not a bit more. Broad shoulders; small breasts. He could see the outline of her bra, and the point of her nipples, through her soaked shirt. Her face was not _entirely _unattractive. Full lips; rather beautiful blue eyes. Little character, other than that scowl. Jaime watched her duck into a small room to the side, probably to change into some spare clothes. _Excellent idea. _The kettle was whistling, and Jaime found a volunteer t-shirt that was about his size. He pulled off his sodden shirt; rinsing it out in a bucket whose sole purpose was sitting underneath the leak in the roof.

He was topless when that side door opened, and Doctor Tarth emerged. She swallowed, blinking a path down his torso, before turning around. "There's a volunteer—"

"—already found it, thanks."

Jaime took his time rubbing his skin dry, knowing Doctor Tarth had a _perfect _view of the show through the reflection of the trophies littering one of the shelves. He grinned. Under that hostile exterior, Doctor Tarth was just like every other woman. She admired a golden lion. Without that hideous, ill-fitting blouse, Jaime could even admire her, too. She had a good figure; shapely legs. And good taste. When Doctor Tarth _finally _turned around, he noticed she'd replaced her blouse with a Blackfish reunion tour t-shirt. Jaime was about to comment how much he loved that band, when he noticed something else.

Snatching Tarth's right wrist, he examined her soul mark. Familiar red stained her skin; the golden lion resting just above her pulse. He felt it jump at his touch. "That's the Lannister house banner."

Tarth took her arm back. "It is. _Unfortunately._"

"_Unfortunately?_" Jaime said, watching Doctor Tarth busy herself by pouring boiling water over two spoonfuls of instant coffee. "Your soulmate is a _Lannister. I _could be your soulmate."

Jaime studied his own wrist, pondering the red and blue quartered crest he had been staring at since he was a child. _Tarth, Tarth, Tarth: _what was their family crest? In truth, Jaime had no idea. Whilst the nine major families in Westeros had their house colours and symbols over _everything, _from hood ornaments to their toilet paper, most of the minor houses had, over decades, hid their house sigils. It was much easier to form an alliance with another house when you didn't know the Gods themselves decreed you should be with another.

Honestly, Doctor Tarth should be jumping at the thought of being his soulmate. He was rich, attractive, and intelligent. But instead, she just handed him a chipped mug of coffee and took a seat behind her desk. "Do you know how many Lannisters there are, Doctor?"

"I'm sure _you_ do. Let me guess, you've done a profile on each of us. There's a whiteboard somewhere with photographs of all my cousins on it."

She scoffed. "Hardly, Doctor Lannister. The museum did an exhibit on your family a few years ago, and we mapped your family tree. I don't care which one of your filthy rich relatives happens to bear my old family crest. The lion on my wrist has no bearing on my life as it stands right now."

"But I bet you doodled that lion all over your notebooks as a teenager. Little hearts and _future Mrs Lannister. _Although, I suppose it would be Doctor…sorry, I don't actually know your name?"

Tarth huffed, quickly losing patience. Her cheeks flushed with frustration, and Jaime found perverse joy in the colour. "I am Doctor Brienne Tarth, curator of this museum. You've dragged me out in the middle of a storm to organise your research for the next seven weeks, and I would prefer it if we got down to business. What say you?"

Jaime leaned back in his chair, taking a long slurp of his coffee. "You're definitely not my soulmate. _Far _too bossy." He took another drink. The instant coffee was cheap, far from cheerful, and _very_ black. "Any chance of milk and sugar?"

"_No._"

After a staring contest across her desk – Jaime unsure whether _Brienne _would simply walk out or slap him – they finally got down to the business at hand. Jaime identified which of the museum's resources he wanted to access, and Brienne signed off on his clearance to some of the more sensitive artefacts and tomes. After all the paperwork had been completed, Brienne took him on a rather brisk tour of the museum. _Not a people person, this one. _Still, he got his bearings, and felt confident that he would have little to do with the museum's curator for the next seven weeks.

"Goodnight, Doctor Lannister," Brienne said as she locked the museum behind him. The rain had stopped an hour ago.

"Funny, I was about to say the same to you," Jaime teased, his head bobbing in the direction of her wrist.

_Oh, that blush is exquisite. _Jaime loved the slight stain across her cheeks; the pink crawling up her throat. He chuckled at her scowl as she stomped her way back to her car. The next morning, Jaime couldn't help himself. He bought them both coffee from a nearby shop, and had the barista scribble _my soulmate _with a little heart on the cardboard sleeve. It became a battle of wills between them: he constantly teasing her about the lion on her skin; she restricting his access so he had to trudge down to her _ghastly _office every time he needed a new item of research.

By the end of those seven weeks, Jaime was glad to be going home. Yet, on his first day back in King's Landing, he found himself missing her presence.

\--

"Just tell Doctor Tarth her _soulmate _is here."

The young man at reception, _Podrick _according to his nametag, dropped his jaw and immediately started jabbing fingers at the telephone. Whilst he waited, Jaime cast his eye over the Shipbreaker Museum to see what had changed in the four years since his last visit. There were a few new exhibits; the blade _Oathkeeper _drawing in the crowds. A find in a dig on Tarth; he'd read the articles, watched Brienne's blotchy face on the news and in one or two documentaries. He'd felt something akin to _pride _as she described what it felt like to host an original Valyrian steel sword from the Long Night. Despite their previous animosity, he admired her intelligence. She was a rather capable woman.

A woman who was still tall, still uncomfortable in her own skin, and still wore that scowl every time she clapped eyes on him. "_Doctor Lannister._"

"Sweetheart!" Jaime exclaimed loudly, drawing startled looks from a few of the museum's patrons. Brienne's forehead furrowed. "Fine, _Doctor Tarth. _It's good to see you again."

"I wish I could say the same. _Why _did you tell Podrick I was your soulmate?"

He shrugged. "Well, unless you've married any of my relatives recently – in which case, how _dare _you not invite me to the wedding – I still could be. You're still promised to a lion, Doctor Tarth. And I'm the golden-est golden lion there is."

Doctor Tarth counted to ten with her fingers, sucking in a deep breath. When she finished counting, she put on her best _customer service _smile. "What can I help you with, Doctor Lannister?"

He waved a badge in her direction. "Access. I'm _faculty _now."

It wasn't only the museum that had changed in the last four years. Jaime had undergone something of a rebirth himself. He'd left the faculty at King's Landing after his father had asked him to change the grades for the son of a business partner – and the daughter of one of his competitors. He didn't have much honour, or integrity, but he refused to let his father take what he had. So Jaime had left behind his lucrative career, his father's money, his lavish apartment, and threw a dart at a map to see where he would relocate. Cersei was in Dorne; Tyrion in the free cities. The dart landed somewhere between them. Jaime chuckled at the pinprick over the island of Tarth, and decided that Storm's End University would be the perfect location for his new chapter.

"_You're not._"

"_I am,_" Jaime grinned. "Professor Baratheon took some persuading, but he relented eventually. You're looking at the new head of History at Storm's End University. We're going to be seeing a _lot_ more of each other, sweetheart."

Brienne glowered. "I am _not _your sweetheart."

"_Of course not. _You're my lady lion; my one true love." Jaime smirked, glancing at some of the upcoming exhibitions for inspiration in order to make Brienne's cheeks turn the same rose colour as the crest on his wrist. "Wench? Queen of Love and Beauty?"

"Doctor Lannister—"

"_Fine, fine._ Shall we retreat to your office, my lady? Have our romantic reunion behind closed doors?"

"I'd like to close a door on _you_," Brienne shot back. She spun away from the reception desk towards the staff only areas; hesitating for a brief moment to allow him to catch up.

He did, and with a smile. "So _violent_, Doctor Tarth_._ I really should warn my relatives as to your temperament. Do you have an outlet for this rage, my lady?"

"Kickboxing and fencing." _Fuck. _Those were two of his favourite things. How had that not come up in conversation four years ago? "As you're going to be joining our historical family in Storm's End, Doctor Lannister, I should inform you we're hosting a melee next month as a stunt for the museum. You're more than welcome to sign up. I'd rather enjoy knocking you into the dust."

Jaime grinned. "Oh, I'm sure you would. As much as I'd enjoy crowning you my Queen of Love and Beauty."

They made it to Brienne's office without further insult or incident, and the paperwork giving Jaime access to the museum's resources was completed quickly. He even had a proper badge with his name and picture; Brienne pouting at how _good _he could look when everyone else looked like White Walkers with a hangover. As he left the museum, Jaime did sign up for the melee. He'd always enjoyed the feel of a sword in his hand. Beating Doctor Tarth in her own field – quite literally; it was taking place in the muddy stretch of grass at the back of the museum – was an added bonus.

That was the plan, at any rate.

But Brienne was good. _Very good. _She moved well, and with speed, and the museum's curator was soon being cheered by the masses who'd come to relive history for the day. Some of her fencing club were taking part, a couple of the museum's staff, and several re-enactors from across the Seven Kingdoms. They all faltered at her hand. Not even Jaime, who had won _awards _for fencing in his teens, could beat her. When the event was over, and Brienne had received a gift certificate to Hot Pie's as a reward, Jaime was left with nothing more than a bag of ice nursing his black eye. But then the flower crown made by his boss' daughter, Shireen, was placed on his head.

"You're right. I _did _enjoy that," Brienne smirked; her blue eyes shining bright as she made him her queen.

Jaime felt his stomach twist at her smile. _Gods, that's not a good sign. _

\--

Things continued to get worse from there. If by _worse, _you meant _incredible. _The more time Jaime spent in the museum, and with Brienne, the more he realised how much he liked her. She was smart, with a biting sense of humour, and they enjoyed a lot of the same things. A month after the melee, they met inadvertently at the cinema to see the latest Ser Duncan sequel. Jaime ignored his seat allocation and sat by Brienne; a poor choice as she kept stealing his popcorn. He then made several hushed comments about her honour as a knight that, rather than hitting back, she actually _smiled _at.

When Brienne wanted to see a documentary on the Targaryen conquest two weeks later, Jaime was invited to join her. And so began their friendship. They shared a coffee ritual on the days he did research in the museum; they enjoyed late night dinners and the occasional Sunday brunch. Jaime joined Brienne's fencing club and, by the time Jaime had been in Storm's End seven months, he realised he liked her. _Really liked her. _

So much so that, as they walked home from seeing a poor Blackfish cover band, Jaime couldn't stop staring. As they turned a corner, Brienne began rubbing at her cheek. "Have I got something on my face?"

He shook his head. "No."

"_Oh._"

As she dropped her arm, Jaime caught sight of her wrist. At work, Brienne kept her arms covered, as did most who hadn't met their soulmates. It was only around him that she wore t-shirts and let the world see the familiar red and gold. Seeing his house banner on her made something inside him _snap. _She belonged to someone in his family. Why not him? "Brienne, have you ever looked for your soulmate?"

She bristled at his question, stumbling forward to put a little distance between them. "What does it matter if I have?"

"It doesn't." _It does. _"It's just…I've got a family reunion coming up, and I thought I could introduce you to some of my cousins. We're all incredibly good looking. Incredibly wealthy. You've really hit the soulmate jackpot."

Brienne snorted. "Even if I _was_ interested in stepping foot into an entire room full of Lannisters, there would be no point." Jaime raised an eyebrow, hoping a subtle approach would encourage Brienne to continue. He waited; she relented. "I'm not sure of the details – I was only seven – but we visited Lannisport a few months after my nameday. Father had a meeting with someone in your family where it was made clear I wasn't good enough."

"Brienne, I—"

She brushed him, and his concern, away. "It's _fine_, Jaime. Maybe when I was young I thought I'd run into them somehow. Our marks would itch, we'd _know, _and that would be that. But I'm happy with my life. I have a job I love, a father who loves me, lots of good friends – a _best _friend." She glanced at him, and Jaime welcomed the warmth that flooded through him. "Growing up, I never thought I'd have any of that. So don't feel sorry for me. _Please._" 

Jaime gave a single nod, agreeing to her request, before immediately pulling apart the bass player they'd heard earlier that night. Brienne seemed to lighten as they discussed the atrocious playing – to say nothing of the singing – whilst Jaime fell inwards. _Our marks would itch. _He'd forgotten that little titbit about soul marks. The first time he'd met Brienne, both cold and wet, his mark had remained stubbornly calm.

_She's not mine. But, Seven, I wish she was. _

\--

Forty years after he'd woken up to find the red and blue crest on his arm, Jaime was ready to find a tattooist and change it to whatever the _fuck _the Tarth family crest was. Because if Brienne wasn't his soulmate, why did she feel so _good? _

Her fingers teased the hair at the nape of his neck, and groaned into his mouth. _"Jaime._"

He responded in kind, mouthing her name as his lips closed over her throat. Brienne on his sofa, both of them engaged in the passionate make out session one does when one has been suffering from sexual tension for _two damn years, _was the best nameday gift Jaime could have asked for. Certainly better than his father's customary clipped phone call, or the case of wine Tyrion had sent. Cersei hadn't even bothered with a card. But Brienne had allowed him to be the first person to hold the museum's newest exhibit: _Widow's Wail_, the sister sword to _Oathkeeper. _

It had taken everything in Jaime not to kiss her then and there. His resolve had lasted till they'd reached his flat.

"_Brienne_," Jaime moaned, kissing his way up her neck. He could feel the cords tighten and flex under his tongue; the rainwater still clinging to her skin. Her nails bit into the blades of his shoulders, and Jaime returned his mouth to hers. They kissed until he felt her leg wrap around his hip, pressing his half-hard cock against her centre. Brienne threw her head back, and Jaime languished kiss after kiss to her jaw. "Gods, you're incredible."

"Jaime, _oh, _Jaime this is—"

"—_perfect_, I know." He nuzzled her throat; his left hand reaching up to stroke that spot just behind her ear that made her keen. "I've wanted this for so long."

"Me too."

Jaime pulled away, then, to take Brienne in. He'd been fascinated by her flush since their very first meeting; had long wondered how far it travelled. With a few buttons of her dark shirt undone, he could see the pink splotches just above the lace of her bra. Her lips were swollen; her eyes dark and stormy. Brienne's breathing was as shaky and wild as a summer storm, and Jaime wanted nothing more than to be washed away. One of Brienne's hands slid up and down the length of his torso, feeling the tense muscle underneath the material. The other brushed against his soul mark.

"Do you ever wonder who she is?"

Jaime shook his head. "Don't care. Have you." He bent his head to kiss Brienne once more, but that gentle hand on his chest turned firm. "_What_?"

Brienne slid out from under him, moving into a sitting position. Her hand tangled in the mess that was her hair: he'd been thorough in teasing, gripping, stroking. She refused to look at him, and Jaime felt the storm turn rough: too rough for the likes of a Westerlands boy. "Someone out there has a Lannister lion on their wrist."

"Yes, _you._"

"But I'm not—" She rubbed her face. "Jaime, I care about you so much. More than I should, I think. More than I should considering you're not mine to want, or have. _I'm sorry._"

Brienne extricated herself from the sofa; turning her back to him as she straightened her hair and re-fastened the buttons of her shirt. She didn't look back as she moved towards the front door, but she did hesitate. _Please, Brienne, come back. It doesn't matter who she is. _But she didn't, and it _did_. It mattered to Brienne who he belonged to; who his soul was made alongside. Collapsing against the sofa, Jaime examined the worn crest of some minor noble family in Westeros. For the lowborn, it was so easy. Favourite colour, favourite animal, favourite shape. There were websites and entire agencies dedicated to matching you with your soulmate. But with money and power came secrecy. There was no website or agency who could tell him what ancient house this crest belonged to.

If only he had access to the most extensive library in all of Westeros.

\--

It hadn't taken much to persuade Stannis, still head of the Humanities department despite his best efforts to take over as Vice Chancellor, to allow Jaime to teach a class on minor noble houses and their development over the past centuries. The students would flock to sign up: most would see it as a way to identify minor noble soul marks. Jaime couldn't blame them; after all, that was what he was doing as well. With the third term of the academic year complete, and Jaime's long break ahead of him, he had plenty of time to find the Tarth crest. It _had _to be her. It _had _to be Brienne.

Resolute and caffeinated, Jaime took up post on the third floor of the museum's library and began poring over books that had been old long before his great-grandfather had been born. He struck lucky two hours in, and startled poor Podrick returning books to the shelves. "Everything alright, Doctor Lannister?"

"It is, Podrick, thank you! Just found House Mormont." The occupants of Bear Island had, to no one's surprise, a bear on their house banner. Jaime made a few notes; skimmed the book for any evidence of _why _the Mormonts had stopped using their house sigil. _Nothing. _"You're a Payne, aren't you, Podrick?"

He nodded. "I am. I don't know my house banner, though, so I don't know what I'm looking for."

Jaime found the Payne banner on his third day of research. It was gaudy, and Jaime pitied the young man or woman who was sporting _that _on their skin. Still, Podrick was happy that he at least knew what to look for now. Over the next two weeks, he often brought Jaime fresh coffee and snacks to keep his energy up as he pored over the ancient texts. By the third week, Jaime knew the house banners of six minor noble houses in the Seven Kingdoms, and had enough anecdotes and history from three to provide evidence as to _why _they had hidden them.

That third week, Brienne came up to the third floor for a visit. It was the first time they'd seen each other since his nameday, and Jaime longed to crawl across the table and press his mouth to hers. She was fidgeting, hands unable to settle, and Jaime wondered whether she was trying to stop herself reaching out for him. "Podrick tells me you're researching a new class."

"Minor noble houses and how they've changed over the centuries. There's some really interesting material." He wet his top lip; Brienne's gaze hot on his face. "I think you'd find it fascinating."

"I'm sure I would. And I'm sure you'll find your research…_fruitful._"

Brienne moved to leave, but Jaime reached for her hand. His fingers knotted with hers; just below his thumb was his family crest. "I told you, I don't care. This is for a _class_. I don't care if the crescent moons and yellow suns are House Florent, Royce, or Tarly. I want _you, _Brienne. I care about you, too; please tell me you know that."

"I do."

"_So stay._"

She didn't. She just stammered some excuse about a museum tour. Jaime let her go, and continued his research. He found House Tarly that afternoon (red huntsman on a green background), but no Tarth. His own Tarth came the next day, with coffee and a selection of healthy snacks, and began reading through a few of the more obscure texts. _This could make an interesting exhibit, _Brienne had said. But he knew they were both trying to find two crests: the red and blue on his arm, and House Tarth. Brienne was utterly convinced they were two separate entities; Jaime adamant that they were one and the same. However every time he came across a new illustration, fear gripped him.

_Please be her, please be her, please be her. _

Seven weeks of serious research had given Jaime enough material for his course, and the potential for a book. He'd found all the houses that had once given fealty to House Lannister, and most of the Northern houses, too. Still no House Tarth. There were over two hundred minor noble houses in Westeros (some had died out; some had lost status), and Jaime still had more than half left to find. At least he was able to spend time with Brienne, even if every time he touched her she jumped six feet in the air.

"I'm going to lock up," Brienne said, after afternoon had ticked into evening and there were still two more books to go from this batch. "No ordering pizza this time; I'm worried about the grease on the books."

"That wasn't me; that was Podrick. But alright." Brienne hovered for a moment, no doubt watching him, before she disappeared downstairs towards the foyer. Jaime turned over another page. 

And there it was. His soulmate's house. A quartered crest with golden suns on a rose background; crescent moons over azure. A large golden sun in the centre. He'd stared at that mark for the past forty years, and this was the first time he'd seen it somewhere other than his arm. There was a note underneath the illustration; a caption for the reader that might as well have said _Jaime Lannister, this is to whom you belong. _He read it once, then twice. Stood up, paced, and read it again.

"House Tarth. _It's House Tarth._"

Jaime grabbed the book and slid it into the crook of his arm as he tried not to fall down the stairs in his haste to get to Brienne. His _soulmate. _He'd felt something the first time they'd met. The crackle of chemistry he'd chalked up to annoyance and frustration as to how well she matched him stroke for stroke, word for word. They had so much in common; worked well with a book in front or sword in hand. So _what _if their marks hadn't itched the first time they'd met? That was just a silly superstition; there'd been no scientific evidence to prove such a theory. The only time his mark had ever itched had been when he was fifteen and had been dragged in front of his father. The only people he'd spoken to then had been his father's receptionist, and that tall child with the cast on her arm.

_I'm not sure of the details – I was only seven – but we visited Lannisport a few months after my nameday. Father had a meeting with someone in your family where it was made clear I wasn't good enough. _

It was her. It was Brienne.

His heart pounded as he took the final few steps down to the foyer. Brienne had just finished locking up, and was looking into space as if her world was slowly fraying at the edges. She caught sight of him, then, and the book under his arm. What little light in her evaporated. She knew.

"You've found her."

He nodded. She looked heartbroken; as if his next words would extinguish some hope she hadn't shared; some dream that he was _right. _"When are you going to learn, Doctor Tarth, that I am _always _right?" Jaime slowly approached, flicking through the book to the right page before showing Brienne. "Moons and suns; reds and blues. House _fucking _Tarth." Brienne poured over the proffered pages. Jaime placed his hand around the wrist that bore his lion, and pressed his lips to the spot just behind her ear. "You're _mine, _Brienne. You always have been."

For a museum curator, Brienne showed little care for her collection as the book bearing her house banner clattered to the floor. Jaime was suddenly pushed up against the reception desk; Brienne's hands sinking through his hair as she planted her mouth across his. Jaime's hands clung to her waist, pulling her flush against him. They took a moment to share a smile, before Brienne kissed him again. And again. Their passionate embrace on his nameday had been incredible – better than he'd ever dreamed – but this was something else. Their connection accepted; every synapse was firing until the simplest touch made him quiver. He never wanted to stop touching her. Thankfully, he didn't have to.

Jaime had long believed that Brienne was his soulmate. But, like every good academic, he'd needed textual evidence to support his claims. The rest of his research could wait. He _had_ his answer.


End file.
